Hellos and Goodbyes
by TheHalfBloodPrincesses
Summary: John Watson has faced much with Sherlock, but he doesn't know much about Sherlock's past. John doesn't think he will ever know, but slowly Sherlock's past starts to reveal itself, and John realizes there is more to the Holmes family than most people know. John/Mary. Sherlolly. Mystrade and slight Mythea. Spoilers for The Empty Hearse, but not for the rest of season three. Enjoy!
1. Stupid Sentiment

Chapter one: Stupid sentiment

**A/N: This is my first fanfiction. Please r&r. This story totally ignores episodes two and three from season three, because I'm not creative enough to incorporate them. So, yeah. Enjoy!**

Sherlock sat, sorting through his mind palace. He had finished the case from Lestrade ten minutes ago, and already he was bored. He laid on the couch, hands on his chest, deleting useless information from his mind palace.

He had deleted some information about the history of gunpowder (no need for that since his case was over). He moved on, strolling the white linoleum floors of his mind palace.

He entered a room and started cleaning, throwing away something about Benjamin Franklin, when he turned and there was a box.

No, no, no, he thought harshly. The box is out of place, the box can't be here!

He lifted the box, a small gray thing with peeling paint and a small silver lock. He lifted it up as if it was a specimen, carefully, though unlike a specimen, he didn't want to observe it any longer.

The box, the locked box, the hidden box in his mind. He let no one else see it, but it was where he kept the sentiment, the memories he wanted to delete, but couldn't seem to let go of. Sentiment.

He knew he shouldn't look at those memories, best to lock them in their box and shove them away. He couldn't bring himself to delete them. Sentiment, he thought with distaste. He tried to ignore them. Wont think about that, won't think about that.

The key was a burden in his pocket, suddenly heavy. Sherlock slowly took it out of his pocket and examined it. Silver, matching the lock, sleek and skinny. He slowly unlocked the box. His mind was screaming no, but his heart ached to see the box.

Though he tried, the memories flooded his mind palace. Good memories, sad memories, embarrassing and upsetting memories. All of the memories seemed to be about her this time. Interesting. All about her. He couldn't bear to say her name. Too much sentiment. Stupid sentiment.

The worst memory, by far, was Mycroft's face. The face when he learned. The face when Mummy had told him, the face that puzzled Sherlock. No tears, the Holmes' never cried. But yet, full of... Sadness? But his brother couldn't be feeling sadness... right?

The memories went on and on, and Sherlock mentally scolded himself for letting him open the locked box. It was a bad idea. Caring was not an advantage, and she certainly taught him that. The box in his mind palace, the one he tried not to open. The one no one knew he had.

The memories, still about her, wouldn't stop. He tried, but couldn't shove them away again. She couldn't be in his mind. He had been good at keeping her away for so long.

Get her out, get her out! Stupid sentiment, stupid, stupid! He screamed, almost positive it was only internally. The memories, oh the memories, her laughing, her crying, Mycroft, the face, that face-

"Sherlock?" A voice called. John. He opened his eyes, suddenly pulled out of his mind palace.

"Why are you here?" He tried to ask as normally as he could. Stupid sentiment, he sighed to himself.

"You asked me to... Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked, a confused look on his face. Sherlock realized what he must have looked like, and tried harder to act normal.

"What? Of course I'm alright John!" Sherlock snapped. "What did you need?"

"You asked me to come to help you with a case." John still looked curious to Sherlock's strange behavior, but said nothing.

"Oh, yes, finished that..." Sherlock frowned, looking at the time on his phone, realizing how much time he had spent in his mind palace. "An hour ago."

"Okay," John replied slowly, dragging out the end. "You sure you're okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, slightly surprised at how the doctor could see right through him. "Of course. Back to my mind palace." Sherlock closed his eyes until he heard John's feet leave the room.

Sherlock opened his eyes. Why all of the sentiment? Why couldn't he keep the box in his head shut? Why now?

He checked his phone and realized the date. Of course, stupid sentiment, no matter how much he tried to get rid of it, it always came back. It was the day she went missing. Of course.

Sherlock sighed. Sentiment. Stupid, stupid, stupid.


	2. Cold and Alone

**Chapter 2**

**Cold and alone**

**Mycroft looked at Anthea quickly. He knew she realized the symbolic ness of the day. Of course she did. A certain coldness hung in the air, and the normally comfortable silence became awkward. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. Anthea texted seemingly more rapid than usual.**

**He was feeling especially dismal. The date, it hasn't helped. He tried to hide his mood by blaming it on the new ambassador that was especially idiotic, but he knew.**

**It was the day she had disappeared.**

**No one knew how. She was supposed to be in her room, he checked and she was gone. They searched the house, searched the grounds, searched the town, and searched all of England. Nothing.**

**The newspapers said she was found in the Thames River.**

**He acted like it didn't affect him. He acted normal. A little stiffer, perhaps, but mostly the same. Just as was expected.**

**He did what everyone expected, but did not feel the same. **

**He was broken, a broken man. He had been a busy man, and neglected her. She would often play alone. Then, everything changed.**

**People referred to him as the iceman, cold and hard. Really, the ice was just a shield, preventing against heartbreak. He had learned that from a young age, from his father's death, the bullying at school when he was young, and now, from her. When she disappeared, 6 years ago, he had hardened especially; he knew one thing. Caring would never be an advantage.**

**Anthea knew the date. She was aware of its significance. When she woke up, she realized tears streaked her face. She didn't know how she was going to make it through the day.**

**She was so young... Many were too young to die. Anthea saw people cry over their missing children. She never thought she would be doing the crying. Or worse, that she wouldn't be allowed to cry.**

**Being around Mycroft was harder than anything. She stared hard at her blackberry screen and typed furiously. She couldn't bear to look at him. She knew he was aware she was upset, but he probably didn't realize the pain this day brought her. 6 years, and she was still as upset as the first day. She sighed inwardly; of course she was.**

**She felt so weak. Why did she feel for the child, she never got much of a chance to love her anyways?**

**But the times she did were her best memories. The ones that seemed to fill with sunshine. And even if the girl didn't know who she was, it didn't matter.**

**But, then... Six years.**

**But she wouldn't let it show. She had had years of practice, acting like the girl wasn't important. That she barely knew the girl. Like she didn't matter. But she did. She had always mattered.**


	3. Still a Mystery

**Chapter 3**

**Still a mystery**

John sighed. Something was up. Sherlock was acting strange. Well, he was always acting strange, but he wasn't normally this... agitated or upset. One of the things John Watson would never understand was Sherlock Holmes.

Even after being his friend for years, after loads of cases, murders, and kidnappings, he still didn't understand Sherlock.

He might know everything about the cases they shared, about his quirky habits, but when it came to his past, John was clueless.

But that probably had nothing to do with why Sherlock was upset.

Sherlock had had an upset look on his face, one that John rarely saw. What could have made him so upset? He just finished a case; he normally was.. Well, happy wasn't the word, but content at least! What could have made him so... upset?

He unlocked the door to the flat he was sharing with Mary. Mary was sitting curled up on the couch reading a book. He decided to ask her for help; she might have insight for what could make Sherlock act so odd.

Mary noticed him come in, and got up from the couch. "Hello, love," she said as she kissed him. "How was Sherlock?"

He sighed. "Sherlock was acting... odd. He had this upset look on his face when I came in, but acted as if he was fine. But I could tell; something's up."

Mary listened to her fiancé. "Well, why don't you just ask him?" she questioned. John froze for a second as if that was the most ridiculous response he had ever heard.

"Because, well, Mary, he's Sherlock! If he was pretending to be alright, he's not going to want to tell me. God, I will never understand that man."

Mary looked at him sympathetically. She knew Sherlock was hard to understand, but someone had to talk to him. She would.

No time like the present.

"I'm going to Tesco's; need anything?" She asked. She made sure to keep her voice full of sympathy so he wouldn't suspect.

"No," John sighed. He sat on the couch staring. Mary quietly opened the door and headed off to Sherlock's.

(Break)

"Sherlock?" Mary called as she entered 221B. She knew he wouldn't answer; she was just making it known that she was there.

She saw Sherlock sitting on the couch in his "mind palace" position: hands crossed against his chest, eyes shut in concentrated focus.

"So," Sherlock said suddenly, his eyes opened wide. "What did John tell you?"

Mary coughed. She wasn't quite used to Sherlock's deductions. "Well, that you were acting strange, upset almost."

"And?" He asked, picking up some files on the coffee table and skimming over them.

"Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, you've just come back from the dead, and everything's changed. I figured your odd mood had something to do with that."

Sherlock kept skimming the papers. "Well, great deduction, Mary. Coming back to London has been odd, I suppose."

He was a good actor. He stared out the window as he said this, faking a sad look in his eyes. He had to be a good actor; his cases required it. He could act sad. Of course he wouldn't tell her.

He didn't tell her that that wasn't the reason he had been so sad. He didn't tell her all about the girl that had died six years ago, leaving their family broken and cold. He didn't tell her that he had a box where he kept sentiment, and the box was cracking. Little leaks oozing sentiment all over his mind palace's floor...

No, he got up and started playing the violin. Mary took this as her cue to leave. She quietly retreated from 221B, from an isolated Sherlock, lost in his mind palace and in memories she didn't know of.

Well, of course she knew he was lying.

She just didn't know why.

**A/N: SO SORRY I didn't post for like 4 days. Busy. School is just a distraction. Bleh. School. TOMORROW'S FRIDAY. Good. Thank you knittingFamine for pre reading the chapter and telling me if it sucks. Please R&R. Adios.**


	4. Her

**Chapter 4**

**Her**

**A/N: So, I am posting again. Yeah. This is to make up for the not-posting-when-I-said-I-would thing. Please review. I want to know if it sucks.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. (I forgot to put this in the beginning.)**

(Two days later)

"John!" Sherlock called while running. John ran besides him, huffing. "Still got your Browning?"

John tossed it to him, and he cocked it. The man they were chasing was fast, very fast. They had just figured out he was the murderer of his cousin.

His cousin, Jack Collins, age 32, had been visiting London for a conference and had been stabbed in the back twice. Everyone expected his wife, who had been cheating on him. They figured she didn't divorce him because if his income.

Fortunately, Sherlock had seen that the knife was from a particular set that he and his wife had, yet the knife from their set wasn't missing. So whose was it?

The cousin's. He was always jealous of his cousin who stole his girlfriend in high school and married her. The cousin figured out that Jack had been cheating in his wife (funny how they were both cheating on each other?) and was upset that he could treat people this way and get away with it. He confronted Jack about it at his house, stabbed him in rage, and disposed of the body after wiping it of traces.

So they ran after this man. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans ripped at the knees. He ran into a red building, had been abandoned for 12 years, Sherlock deduced, and had climbed up two flights of stairs.

Sherlock raced to the top of the stairs, out of breath. They had been chasing him for 10 minutes, and had already called the police for backup. His brother was most likely involved now, considering that they had disappeared into a building his cameras couldn't see.

He stopped abruptly in the room, cement, had leaks that were never fixed. There was a red couch in the middle if the room. It was facing opposite way so he couldn't see who was sitting on it, but going by their breathing he assumed it was a girl, around 14-15 years old. The man they had been chasing previously was tied to a mahogany table next to the couch.

John managed to get up the steps, panting the whole way. Sherlock stood, deciding his next move. John saw the man tied up, but couldn't see the movement on the couch or differentiate breathing patterns.

He stood quietly, knowing there was something Sherlock had deduced that he hadn't noticed. An eerie silence echoed through the room. The only sounds that were noticeable (to John anyways) were a dripping pipe and the muffled cries of the gagged man tied to the table.

"Drowned in the Thames, eh? Thought you would have come up with something cleverer. You could have easily faked a body," said a mocking voice. It was just another girl's voice to John, but Sherlock immediately tensed. No.

She was dead.

Whatever Sherlock was previously going to say was lost. His voice caught in his throat. John looked at him quizzically. His normal cold stare was replaced by astonishment, a rare expression.

"You- you were- you were dead," Sherlock managed to spit out. Now John was really surprised. Sherlock never stuttered. Ever. Sherlock's hand gripped the Browning tighter.

The girl slowly got off the couch and faced them. Her cascading red- brown waves framed her pale face. Her ice blue eyes stared at them, calculating yet lighthearted. A small smile played upon her red lips. She wore a white dress that came down to her knees, a black leather jacket, and black converse. A silver charm bracelet dangled from her left wrist.

Sherlock stared. She was- she was definitely the same girl, though six years older, of course. Fit, could easily outrun most people (though she always could), a slight blood stain on the heel of her black converse, her fingers drumming the couch. She was so much the same.

But she was dead.

Well, she was supposed to be. So how could he be staring at her? A girl who he had not seen in six years, fourteen years old now. She was here.

How?

"You were dead too." She shrugged, acting like this was a normal everyday conversation that they had, when really, Sherlock was talking to her.

"Obviously, you probably don't realize the significance of the date, but today is when they first declared me dead. I like being dramatic, probably inherited from you." She sighed.

John was utterly confused by the whole exchange. "Exactly who are you?" John asked. He had never seen Sherlock look so... Frightened wasn't the word, more like doubting his mind. The girl looked at him, her pale blue eyes burning into his. John realized they looked like Sherlock's.

"Well, I'm pretty sure that Sherlock here can tell you, going by the horrified look on his face." She said the word Sherlock like it was a name she hasn't said in a very long time. John looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"John, meet Elizabeth Holmes," he swallowed. "My niece."


	5. Another Holmes

**A/N: So I am horrible about updating. I'm probably only going to update on the weekend because of this horrible thing called school that likes to prevent me from writing. Well, at least writing anything worthwhile. Feedback on this story would be appreciated. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC. Everything else belongs to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

John was in quite a bit of a shock for a moment. It couldn't be Mycroft's daughter… could it? That's... That's ridiculous! John thought to himself. The British Government has a child? What? Was that even possible?

But the longer he stared, the more resemblances he saw between the Mycroft and the girl in front of him. The same I'm-better-than-you-and-we-both-know-it stare, the same hair color, the same posh-and-poised way they both stood. But there were definitely some qualities of Sherlock in there, like that smirk he gets when he blows everyone away with his deductions.

Sherlock's face returned to normal. She was, after all, a Holmes. He had faked his death, why shouldn't she? Though he was disappointed to know that he hadn't been the first. She was clever- oh! She was brilliant! And he was certain Mycroft didn't know, which made him pleased.

In the few minutes this had taken place, Elizabeth had taken to strolling around the room, waiting for them to speak. Her smirk seemed permanently plastered on her face; never faltering, not even for a second. She waited, knowing that normal people were slow to catch on. John's expression was amusing. Army doctor, eh? He must not know Sherlock very well going by the extreme amount of shock on his face. Either that, or Uncle Sherlock had deleted her from most of his memories, deeming her unimportant. The second was most likely.

John finally spoke, his voice breaking the silence. "You're Mycroft's daughter."

Elizabeth gave him a sarcastic glance. "No, really? Of course I am! It took you that long to figure that out?" she huffed and turned to Sherlock. "Why do you take him on cases anyway?"

Sherlock ignored her comment against John. "Why now? Other than the date of course, it seems very illogical to come out of hiding. Faking your death probably wasn't easy. Why now?" he pondered, mostly talking to himself.

John stayed silent. Another Holmes faking their death? _And at this age? _

He remembered what it felt like after Sherlock's "death". Agonizing pain. Worse than getting shot. He hadn't known what to do with himself. He couldn't even imagine what Mycroft had gone through. But Mycroft would probably shrug it off and say something about how they were all goldfish and caring was not an advantage. Which made the whole having-a-daughter-thing confusing

Elizabeth slowly continued to pace the room. "Well, see Uncle Sherlock, I didn't really fake my death. Contrary to popular belief, the Holmes' can't really do _everything._ No, an eight year old faking their death? Not really easy."

Sherlock was slightly surprised at this. Well, this should be interesting. He had 56 ideas of how the body had gotten in the Thames not one minute after she said that.

She continued. "No, see, what really happened was I ran away, and someone else put the body there. And I'm bored, so I decided to find out who put it there. But that's tricky to do when you're supposed to be dead."

Sherlock stayed silent, his mind already whirring. She didn't fake it. Someone else did. Body in the Thames, who would have had the money and motive? This was at least a 7.

Almost as if sensing what was going through his brain, Elizabeth said, "My money's on Father." A slight sadness washed over her eyes, but it was gone so quickly it could've been a trick of light. She smirked again. "Never did like me."

Sherlock looked at her, startled. What? She hadn't said that sarcastically. Did she really think it was Mycroft? No. His face, after he learned that she died, that was enough to tell him everything. He cared more for her than anyone in the world. She turned his brother into the ice man, made his brother cold and afraid of getting a broken heart, _and she didn't know?_

Well, she must not have been able to deduce much when she was eight. He decided not to tell her about Mycroft. It would only waste his time. Back to the case at hand.

"That is actually quite interesting," he mused. "And it wasn't Mycroft. I'm going to need some files." He turned on his heel and exited the building. Scotland Yard. He certainly wasn't going to Mycroft. Apparently, Elizabeth didn't want to be found, and telling him would only bring more complications.

John stared at the girl before him. "Are you coming too?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Might as well." She turned towards the man, still tied up, and shot him. Nice clean bullet to the head. John winced. He wondered how she learned to shoot like that. He probably didn't want to know. She tucked the gun into a pocket of her leather jacket and strolled after Sherlock like it was any ordinary day. Well, then, John thought.

Apparently, he still had a lot to learn about the Holmes'.


	6. Like She Was Always There

**A/N: So I have decided that Friday's will be update days unless I manage to have enough free time. Because I don't want to have to post a sloppy chapter because I only had ten minutes to write. So yeah. If any of you have a Quotev account, follow me and the co-owner of this account: Me- Churrogirl, Her: Demonic Angel. Yep so thanks! **

**Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine except for my OC.**

**-Tinkerbell**

Elizabeth and John strolled out of the building. Sherlock had obviously left and forgotten about them so they had to take a cab. Elizabeth texted and John sat there in awkward (at least to John) silence. Finally, Elizabeth realized that most people want to _socialize._

"So?" she asked. "You're curious, what about?" John looked at her for a second, then replied. "Well, where were you before? I mean, when you ran away? What were you doing?"

"Next question," she said. John was confused. "I'm not going to answer that. You don't need to know that, so I'm not going to tell you. Next question." John paused. At least Sherlock gave him an answer. "Um, why exactly did you run away?" She sighed. "With no mother, a father who you rarely saw, and no family who cared about you?" She laughed weakly. "Why wouldn't you?"

"I am surprised Uncle Sherlock found a friend. He was the least social of the family and almost never came to visit." The cab stopped outside. Elizabeth had deduced this is where he would go. "We're here."

Elizabeth paid the cabbie (how did a runaway have money? John thought.) and they headed inside. They saw a very angry looking Sherlock and a frustrated Sally Donovan arguing.

"I need to see Lestrade immediately!" Sherlock seethed through his teeth. "It's _important_." Sally looked annoyed. "He's busy," she said a bit too loudly. A tired looking Lestrade came out and saw them arguing. "What do you need, Sherlock?" he asked. He did not look happy.

"I need access to some files for a case." Lestrade sighed. Of course he did. "You just expect us to give them to you, don't you?" Sherlock huffed. "I do help you with many of your cases; I just need them for this one time..."

"Fine," said a very grumpy Lestrade. "But don't expect this to become a regular thing." He led Sherlock to his office. John and Elizabeth followed and Sally noticed the girl.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" she asked. Elizabeth turned and the deductions started. Hates Uncle Sherlock, has a soft spot for children, blah, blah, she wasn't really interesting. "My name is Elizabeth," she replied coldly ad turned back to catch up with John and Uncle Sherlock. "Yes, but what are you doing here? I mean, are you lost?" the lady asked again. Elizabeth rolled her eyes. People. So stupid.

"No, I am fine." She turned around to follow Uncle Sherlock, but he was already gone with John and the Detective Inspector. She asked the lady, "Do you know where Sherlock Holmes is?" She probably could have found him on her own, but she was tired today, and unlike her uncle, she learned how to stop the deductions.

The lady laughed. "Why're you looking for the Freak?" she asked. Her face suddenly got serious. "Did he drag you here? I wouldn't be surprised if he did. Oh my God, you can tell me if he made you come here. I'm a police officer, I can help."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. This lady was overreacting. Her uncle would never capture people- unless he had good reasoning, of course. "I'm fine," she smiled. "But where is he?"

"Are you serious? You want to find him? He didn't force you to come here?" She looked surprised, as if no one would ever want to find Sherlock Holmes, except for maybe to murder him. This lady was annoying her.

"Will you stop treating me like an incompetent child!" she screeched. Heads turned. Whoops, she thought. She didn't want to be noticed. She quieted down a bit. "You are wasting my time. I can find him on my own," she managed with her jaw clenched. She turned on her heel, then looked back. "And don't call my uncle a freak!"

The look on the lady's face was priceless. She stormed down the hall, and managed to find John searching for her. "Where were you?" he asked. Then he saw her face. "What happened?"

She sniffed. "The lady Uncle Sherlock was talking to- the annoying one- was treating me like a child. A child, Dr. Watson! I don't like her." John struggled keeping his laughter in. "Sherlock… doesn't like… her either," John managed between laughs. "And you can call me John."

Sherlock walked toward them, files in hand. "We can go now," he said with a slight distaste. John figured Greg got tired of letting Sherlock take files like he owned the place. Elizabeth's and Sherlock's faces were nearly identical, and it only made John laugh harder.

They passed Sally on their way out, and she looked as if she wanted to say something to Sherlock, but the looks on their faces made her change her mind. Elizabeth almost smiled. John followed behind the Holmes's with a smug look on his face. Sherlock's mind whizzed, thinking of hundreds of theories of how a body got planted in the Thames River. Everything seemed as if it had been this way for a while, instead of John meeting Elizabeth for the first time this morning. Everything seem… natural.

Elizabeth just hoped her past wouldn't decide to interfere.


End file.
